for a while, zwie thought that he’d finally hit his limit with how badly he could fuck himself up on drugs. he was never seeking out joy with drugs. he had only ever been seeking out being somewhat close to “okay.” to be okay was one of the hardest things for him, but it was a baseline zwie desperately wanted to reach so he could fucking function on a day-to-day basis. who knew what cocktail mix of mental disorders he’s had going on in his mind. was it something to blame on mommy dearest, genetics, or something else all together? zwie wasn’t sure. there were some things in the world zwie wasn’t going to understand, so he’d just let them be. but something about seven and this confusing catastrophe they were caught in were things zwie couldn’t let go of. he needed to know the truth. but now, zwie was wondering if things would’ve been better off for both of them had the truth remained untouched and buried.
maybe this would’ve been easier if all zwie could’ve remembered about them were fights. but there was hardly any of that. he only saw back hugs in the kitchen, nuzzling into his partner’s neck, playfully biting at his shoulder. or holding him in his arms at night. or playing with his hair while curling up on the sofa, not paying any mind to what was on tv, because their focus was only ever on each other. they weren’t perfect. but they were good. and they were in love. so what happened?
when modified memories started to unravel, well— good luck having a normal brain. you were fucked. zwie’s already noticed how his perception of time had changed. things weren’t always linear to him anymore. what were memories layered over his present. sometimes he was so lost in an inner film reel of the past that if someone spoke to him in the present, zwie was unresponsive. the young man was catatonic at times without even realizing it. but the few people zwie interacted with on a semi regular basis weren’t concerned. they just thought he was on a harder dose of this or that lately.
“do what?” he asked through gritted teeth. “you couldn’t do what anymore?” remembering was still a work-in-progress for him. zwie didn’t know what the fuck seven was referring to. “did i fuck up or something? how badly did i fuck up that you had to fuck with your own head and erase me?” zwie slammed him against the wall again. “don’t go cryptic on me! give me the truth straight and clear, man!” when the other went on giving him ambiguous answers, zwie finally hit him across the face, then threw him onto the ground. in the past, zwie would’ve never laid a hand on seven like this. but before he knew it, his clenched fist had made impact with the other man’s face.
silence settled in the room. zwie stood hovering over seven, breathing heavily. until finally he sunk to the ground, sitting down. zwie turned his head as he quickly wiped the unshed tears with the back of his hand. he didn’t want to be seen with tears in his eyes. he’s already cried enough. anything from staring off into space, blank expression, empty eyes, tears falling in silence. all the way to the most intense sobbing that you end up choking until you’re dry heaving. “i’m sorry.” his voice had lost its rough edge. it was somber with defeat. “for hitting you. and for whatever else i did that pushed you to this decision.” he was only left blaming himself. zwie wasn’t surprised. he’s always known he was too fucked up to be loved.
sure, seven had reverted back into his old patterns of self-destruction and sleepless nights laced with bitterness, anger and hollow acceptance, and sure for a while everything had seemed normal enough, but standing here, now, in the midst of what felt like some sort of fucking sad scene out of a movie in hollywood, seven can only think was it worth it? was it worth this? the answer should be yes, shouldn’t it? so why was it that it wasn’t?
seven wasn’t designed for hollywood; he was imperfect, lost, fucked up in more ways than one, and the solitude he’d worked so hard to carefully mold and create had all been torn down when zwie had came in because it felt like death was easier whenever the other wasn’t around; it was like letting a man taste heaven, only to shove him back into hell, only this time, he made sure than he couldn’t remember what heaven had felt like. it was easier when you couldn’t remember what three a.m kisses on a balcony felt like, what a warm hand in the winter felt like pressed against your own, what it felt like to be able to wake up in the morning next to a face and think, ‘wow, i could live in this moment forever’.
his solitude had been easy, unquestioning. his dealers never asked why he’d suddenly started coming around again, and he never offered up an explanation. he went back underground and started up his business deals again, answering old messages asking where he’d been with a shrug and a high that felt more out of necessity than pleasure. he’d give anything to be high right now rather than deal with this.
he doesn’t answer the other’s questions, but luckily, he doesn’t have to. between one second and the next, seven is sent reeling, and pressure blossoms across his cheek, and he half expects pain along with it. ( it never comes. ) he tastes iron mixed with saliva, and he swipes his tongue across the length of his mouth, his tongue piercing dragging across his teeth painfully loud in what feels like a deafening silence ringing in his ears. he crumples in an unceremonious heap on the ground, and were he his true self, seven would have fought back tenfold, but this was zwie he was dealing with, and it seemed to be better to lie in the ground with his face against the cool tile rather than to stand back up and look the other in the eyes.
he swallows as he hears the apology on the tip of the other’s tongue, and he clenches his own teeth, sitting up after a moment with a ragged breath. he still refuses to look zwie in the eyes, choosing instead to focus on a stray scrap of metal that had cut a small, yet deep gash into the palm of his hand on his way down. ( it doesn’t hurt, but he wishes it did. maybe then, he’d find some feasible way of atoning for his sins. ) “it wasn’t your fault,” he says, voice surprisingly sharp. he’d always been passionate about zwie, and no amount of lost memories between them could change that, no matter how much seven could have tried.
“it wasn’t your fucking fault,” he breaths out again, and this time his voice is jagged around the edges and threatens to expose him. “it was mine. you didn’t do a damn thing, so don’t go around blaming yourself or some romantic shit like that. you didn’t fuck up, okay?” his voice is definitely wavering now, and it’s with heaving breaths that he crawls over to the other, eyes fierce and half blinded by unshed tears, and he grips the front of zwie’s shirt, jerking the other closer. “don’t you dare fucking apologize to me.”
